


Sherlock Shuts It All Out

by wendymarlowe



Series: John and Sherlock's Kinky First Times [22]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-01-27 01:36:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1710206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's impossible demands for silence when he's thinking give John an idea: if John can't stop making noises, at least some earplugs can stop Sherlock from hearing them.  Sherlock responds well to sensory deprivation, as it turns out - really, surprisingly well.  John can't help but take it to the next level . . .</p><p>(Part of my "John and Sherlock's Kinky First Times" series of shorts, all revolving around the same basic theme of "John and Sherlock get sexy for the first time and also discover some kinky stuff about each other.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John sighed and turned a page in his book. The story wasn’t developing into the engrossing thriller he had hoped, but it was (just barely) intriguing enough to make him at least want to find out how it ended. Not an ideal way to spend his time, but the current case - a tricky combination kidnapping-homicide - was at the “Sherlock lies around and mutters a lot” phase and there really wasn’t anything he could do to help.

“Stop breathing, John, it’s annoying,” Sherlock snapped. He was splayed out over the sofa, his forefingers steepled under his chin in his favorite “thinking” pose, but so far he seemed to be doing a lot more grumbling than thinking.

“I highly doubt me passing out from lack of oxygen would help you concentrate,” John replied mildly.

“You _existing_ is not helping me concentrate.” Sherlock growled and smacked his hand against the arm of the sofa sharply. “DATA! I have the data, it’s all there, but I can’t _think_ and it’s all fuzzy and mussed up in circles and that’s what the killer wanted, I’m sure, but it’s bloody annoying. What am I missing? Somethingmissingsomethingmissingsomethingmissing . . .” His rant subsided into a low murmur, and he sprawled even more aggressively over the cushions.

John shrugged and turned another page.

“TOO LOUD!” Sherlock roared.

“Too bloody sensitive,” John retorted. “It’s a wonder you can live in London at all - wouldn’t you be happier in some quiet cottage off in the country?”

Sherlock opened one eyelid and shot him a peeved glare.

“Bloody - fine.” John slammed his book shut, belatedly remembering he should have marked his place. “I’ll just go wait on you, shall I?”

An elegant hand gesture shooed him up to his room.

John stomped as he ascended the stairs, which was perhaps a bit childish, but it felt good to at least do _something_ to defy Sherlock when he was being such a git. It’s not like John could stop making noise altogether-

 _Ah._ The thought appeared out of nowhere, just a glimmer of an idea, but John had nothing better to do and he damn well wasn’t going to hide up here in his bedroom, so perhaps it was worth trying. He tugged open the drawer of his nightstand, pushed aside the old handkerchief (his grandfather’s, not used for at least twenty years, but still nice to keep close by) and the comb (used rarely) and the bottle of lube (used a good deal more often than John wanted to admit, they way his love life had been going recently) and _yes_ , there they were. John shook a new pair of earplugs out of the box and rolled them across his palm. He had bought the box when he first moved in, the day after Sherlock’s first all-night marathon violin session as a matter of fact, but by the next week he was used to the noise, used to Baker Street, and they had gotten pushed to the back of the drawer.

On impulse, John dug in his closet and pulled out his widest, ugliest necktie. A real blindfold would be better, but this would serve. And if Sherlock didn’t like it, he could bloody well do his deducing somewhere else for a change.

***

Sherlock had managed to rotate a hundred and eighty degrees by the time John got back downstairs, his head crammed into the corner between the armrest and the seat cushion and one long leg sticking up at a right angle over the sofa back as if in some sort of demented cheesecake pose. At least he was dressed - John would have gotten an eyeful if Sherlock had been in just his boxers and dressing gown like he often was when sulking. (He’d say “deducing,” but “sulking” covered it just as well.)

“Solved it,” John announced. “Sit up a bit.”

Sherlock sat up. “What, the kidnapping? I don’t believe you.”

 _Yeah, like I’d have suddenly solved THAT._ John rolled his eyes, which Sherlock undoubtedly noticed but chose to ignore. “Solved your problem. Lean forward.” Sherlock was turned just enough sideways that John was able to slip around the edge of the sofa and get behind him, and before Sherlock could protest, John had the tie wrapped twice around his head and was tying off a quick square knot just over his left ear.

Sherlock held very still, but the confusion infused every line of his body.

“Not too tight?” John asked quietly.

Sherlock caught his bottom lip between his teeth, a nervous habit John had noticed he only indulged in when he felt suddenly out of his depth and didn’t want to say anything. He shook his head in a tiny “no,” though, and didn’t ask the obvious question.

“Earplugs next. Don’t worry; they’re a clean pair.” John placed his palm against Sherlock’s jawline, tilting his head slightly to the side, and nudged one earplug snugly inside Sherlock’s left ear canal. He quickly repeated the process on the other side - a bit more clumsily, since he had to lean over Sherlock to do it, but both sides looked reasonably centered and Sherlock was holding perfectly still.

There wasn’t much point in explaining now that Sherlock couldn’t hear him, of course, and Sherlock didn’t seem to be inclined to ask questions. He still sat nervously, spine unusually straight and that little divot in his lip from where he was biting it on the inside. Silent and uncomfortable, but trusting. The realization - Sherlock truly did trust him - sent a wash of warm emotion through John’s torso. It was one he didn’t allow himself to examine too closely.

Instead, he pressed one hand to Sherlock’s sternum and the other to the small of his back. Sherlock acquiesced, allowing John to tilt him backwards and position him on his back on the sofa. John tried to settle him in as best as possible, mimicking Sherlock’s normal thinking pose, then dropped a hand to Sherlock’s ankle for a quick squeeze before moving away to retrieve his book.

The flat was silent. Sherlock just lay there, not moving, not complaining. It took several minutes (and several uninteresting pages of his story) before John noticed Sherlock’s lips twitching - talking silently to himself, then, working through his deductions. John hid a smile (not like there was any point in hiding, not with Sherlock blindfolded) and turned his attention back to his book.

***

Sherlock sat bolt upright forty-five minutes later. He tore the improvised blindfold off in one smooth movement, eyes locking onto John’s.

“The brother!” He winced slightly, dug the earplugs out of his ears, and bounced to his feet. “It’s so _obvious_ now - of course it was the brother’s idea! Lestrade thought he couldn’t be involved because he was broke, but of course he didn’t tell the kidnappers that. There was no money trail because _there was no payment_. And when the kidnappers learned they had been lied to - it all fits.” He bounded over to John’s chair, pulled him up to standing, and whirled him around in what would have been a hug for anyone except Sherlock, because of course Sherlock didn’t do that sort of thing. _(Did he?)_

“Um.” It was about all John could manage in the wake of Sherlock’s enthusiasm.

“That was a brilliant idea, by the way,” Sherlock said over his shoulder, already pulling on his coat and headed for the door. “Sensory deprivation has never worked for me before, but I see now it was because I never had someone to stand guard and keep me safe while I was incapacitated. We’ll have to get a real blindfold for next time.” He paused in the doorway. “Coming?”

John was following before he really even had the chance to decide. Sherlock . . . trusted him.

He really shouldn’t have felt as good about that as he did.


	2. Chapter 2

The next week went normally - which was to say, Sherlock’s sulking followed a predictable pattern. He was elated for the first twenty-four hours, like always after a successful case. He then slept for the next twenty-four, puttered around the flat doing fifty experiments at once for the three days after that, and slowly slid into a strop by the end of the week. John kept his mouth shut, but he finally went out just to get away from the flat.

“You went shopping.” Sherlock swiveled to stare as John walked through the door. “Somewhere that wasn’t Tesco’s.”

Since that was rather obvious by the shape of the bag he was carrying, John didn’t bother acknowledging it.

Sherlock’s gaze flicked from the bag back up to John’s face, then he sighed and flopped himself back onto the sofa. “Just do it, then.”

“Pardon?”

Sherlock waved in the direction of the bag. “You’ve been stocking up for a week now, and I’m bored. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

John swallowed and clutched the handle of the bag tighter. He _had_ been getting a few more things for Sherlock, but it was galling to apparently be so transparent about it. It’s not like he was _planning_ anything - okay, if he were being honest with himself he’d have to admit he was, but it was more of a revenge fantasy than anything else. The harder Sherlock sulked, the more John daydreamed about how nice it would be to make him shut up and turn it all _off_ for a while. He very carefully didn’t analyze how much of that “nice” would be the blessed silence and how much would be the idea of Sherlock helpless. Because of him. Unable to stop him from doing whatever he liked. He dragged his brain away from that line of thought again, for fear of something showing on his face.

But Sherlock was already staring at the ceiling, lying inhumanly still and building up to another sulk. That, more than anything else, got John moving toward the stairs to his room.

“Here, or on my bed?” Sherlock called after him.

“Ah . . . right there is fine?” John hated how his voice squeaked upward on the last word. Which of course Sherlock would notice, the brilliant git, but for once Sherlock didn’t say anything. John quickly darted the rest of the way up the stairs and pulled out the bag of items he’d been accumulating for the last several days. He gave the contents a quick once-over, just to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, then took a deep breath and headed back down to the living room.

“Right then.” Best to sound like he knew what he was doing. “How long do you want me to . . . err, how long do you want to try this?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I do actually trust you, John.” He turned his head, letting John see the fierce brightness and the truth in his gaze. “You’re being _interesting._ I like that.”

“Okay. Well.” John pulled out the blindfold first. It was a proper one, a sleep mask actually, slightly weighted and a nice plain black (the only one he could find that wasn’t either paisley or overtly feminine) and with an adjustable velcro strap in the back. Sherlock sat up silently and ducked his head forward so John could fasten it on. “That comfortable?”

Sherlock made a low humming noise in his throat.

“Taste next. Open your mouth.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped with an alacrity that made John pause. And then imagine some rather salacious things he’d like to do with that mouth, especially since with Sherlock seated on the sofa, it was just about the right height . . . John clamped down on that thought, too, and pulled out the breath freshener. Sherlock tolerated three spritzes, then wrinkled his nose and turned his head away. “Peppermint, John, really?”

“I also considered lemon juice, but figured mint would be preferable. Hold still.” John dipped his finger in the menthol cream and dabbed it on Sherlock’s philtrum, then smeared it around a bit so it covered the entire area between his nostrils and his upper lip. It would feel strangely cool for a while, as the menthol set in, but it was the least offensive scent John could think of which would also block out everything else.

“I assume you’re doing earplugs next?”

“Last,” John answered. “First I’m going to do your toes.”

Sherlock’s forehead wrinkled beneath the sleep mask, but he didn’t pull away when John caught his bare foot and lifted it up from the sofa. The little foam separator thingies were a bit of an impulse purchase - John happened to see them at Tesco’s the day after Sherlock solved the last case, hidden among a whole host of nail polish and feminine primping tools, and he decided they were cheap enough to pick up just in case. As Sherlock got more annoying over the course of the week, he got more sure he made the right decision.

It did feel strange to be touching Sherlock’s feet like that, though, poking his toes down through the little divots in the foam so each one was spread and separate. He couldn’t remove Sherlock’s sense of touch entirely, but he could cut down on the familiar inputs, and toes rubbing together was one of them. “How’s that feel?” he asked quietly.

Sherlock hummed again, an equivocal sound. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s fine.”

“Supposed to be for painting your toenails, I think. Hands next.”

Sherlock held his hands out, allowing John to slip the elbow-length dishwashing gloves over his long fingers without comment. John couldn’t resist a quick squeeze of Sherlock’s elbow (the bit of skin he could reach above the line of the gloves) before he pulled out the tape and cotton gauze. A quick wrap of each finger with the gauze and then a thorough coat of tape, and it only took a few minutes for Sherlock’s fingers to be immobilized in the gloves just as well as his toes were.

“You’ve been thinking about this quite a bit,” Sherlock commented.

“Yeah, I guess I have.”

“My bedroom, the box on top of my bedside table. You may find it useful as well.”

John paused. “You bought something?”

Sherlock’s condescending look somehow communicated even through the sleep mask. “I’ve been thinking about this quite a bit too,” he said dryly. “It was a good idea, and I anticipate it being useful in the future.”

John would be lying if he had said he wasn’t surprised, but he went to look in Sherlock’s room anyway. And sure enough, there was a nondescript brown parcel on the table, not even opened. He worked the tape off and discovered a pair of sound-cancelling headphones inside.

“These must have been expensive,” he said aloud as he came back to the living room.

“A hundred pounds, but I wanted to get a decent pair. The cheaper ones just produce white noise. They’ll need batteries.”

John was pleased to see they did indeed still have batteries in the junk drawer in the kitchen - Sherlock tended up to use up whole bulk packages at once for his experiments - and the headphones didn’t require a fifty-pound gold-plated screwdriver or something to get open. Sherlock waited patiently on the sofa.

“Right then.” John paused before slipping them onto Sherlock’s head. “Guess we don’t need my cheap earplugs. How long do you want me to let you percolate for?”

“Not percolating. Just going to do some mental housekeeping.”

John snorted. “So you’ll clean up in there, but not around the flat? Hardly seems fair.”

Sherlock waved one taped, gloved hand in his direction - a gesture which might have been eloquent in another situation, but just looked vaguely ridiculous now. “Mind palace gets cluttered - I air it every once in a while.”

“How long, then?”

“I’ll tell you when I’m done.” Sherlock sat up a bit straighter, arching toward the headphones. “Thank you.”

The novelty of actually receiving _thanks_ didn’t escape John either, but he settled the headphones over Sherlock’s ears and adjusted the cord (not plugged into anything anyway) to trail harmlessly over the edge of the cushion. Sherlock hummed contentedly and visibly relaxed. John retreated to his armchair and the book he’d been meaning to start - another thriller, hopefully better than the last one.

He got only five pages in before he realized Sherlock was calling his name. Very softly. John kept his finger on his page and went to touch Sherlock’s shoulder - no point in answering verbally -

“John, sit with me?” Sherlock’s voice was still very soft, but there was a note of uncertainty in it. “I . . . suspect I’ll think better if you’re nearby.”

There wasn’t a lot of room left on the sofa, with Sherlock’s long legs spread out across most of it, but John took a seat on the one end left free. He tried to leave enough room to not crowd his flatmate, but Sherlock immediately wriggled downward to lie flat on his back with his feet propped in John’s lap. It was a strangely domestic pose, reminiscent of an old married couple sitting by the fire after a long day, but it wasn’t . . . _uncomfortable_ , really. Just odd. John dropped a hand to Sherlock’s bare ankle and squeezed, and was rewarded by a tiny sigh and a full-body shudder.

“That’s good,” Sherlock breathed. “Need you here with me.”

John suppressed a smile and went back to his book.

Forty-five minutes later, Sherlock sat up, stretched, and worked the gloves off his hands. The look he gave John when he got the sleep mask off was strangely tender and vulnerable and made John’s heart beat a bit faster. “Thanks,” he said without any sarcasm whatsoever. “Hungry?”


	3. Chapter 3

John couldn’t help but notice, over the course of the next few days, how Sherlock’s gaze kept straying over to him whenever they were both in the same room. At first he just put it down to boredom - Sherlock could stare at nothing for hours at a time when he was in the right mood, and it was possible John just happened to be occupying the wrong position in space - but then they had another commission come in and he had to admit there was something more there.

The client herself was nothing special, merely some rich woman who had just found out her jewelry was replaced with fakes. Thirty-six hours of fast-paced consulting later Sherlock uncovered the culprit. The conclusion was both more and less interesting than anticipated - less because the thief turned to be the woman’s son’s partner (in both a business and personal sense), swapping genuine stones one at a time for imitations. More because several of the originals turned out to have been stolen more than a century ago. Everything culminated in a chilly four-hour nocturnal stakeout in the alley facing a pawnshop, an overwrought gay man sobbing at the top of his lungs that he deserved a second chance, and a grumbling Lestrade and Donovan hauling the ex-lover-ex-partner off to the yard.

“I’m impressed you recognized that necklace,” John said as they ducked past the crime scene tape around the pawnshop. “Been reading up on your turn-of-the-century lapidaries?”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally. “Home,” he murmured, clearly not having listened to a word John just said. They rode back to Baker Street in silence. Sherlock was barely inside the door before he was stripping down to his boxers, throwing on his dressing robe, and flopping on his back onto the sofa.

“Headphones?”

John - who had watched this unusual transformation take place in less than a minute - frowned and eyed him with suspicion.

“Not going to tell me how you did it? Usually you’re just dying to get it off your chest.”

“This is more important. I replaced the gloves - the new ones are in the bag with everything else under your bed. Hurry, please.”

 _Christ._ There was no point in pressing the issue, John knew - it wouldn’t do any good - but usually he at least got a good two days of relative normality before Sherlock started going out of his mind. Seeing him want to _start_ that way hardly seemed like a good sign.

“I’ll explain later,” Sherlock added.

John retrieved the bag.

Everything felt oddly routine, now, despite them having only done this twice before - the sleep mask, the breath spray, the menthol, the toe separators, the padded dish gloves (pre-taped this time, apparently Sherlock’s addition), and the headphones. John rather suspected Sherlock might fall asleep like that, cut off from all his senses and post-adrenaline rush after the case. Hell, _he_ was likely to fall asleep - the chill from the four hours they’d spent in the alleyway had long since worn off, and even though it was starting to get light outside, John was ready for bed.

“Just doze here,” Sherlock said, breaking the silence, and lifted up his feet so John could sit down.

 _That’s creepy._ It was always a bit eerie when Sherlock was able to read his mind like that - when he answered questions John didn’t ask out loud - but it was even more so now, given that Sherlock was effectively blind and deaf and couldn’t possibly have picked up John’s thoughts based on his body language or facial expression.

“Sometimes I think I don’t even need to bother talking anymore,” John mumbled aloud. But he sat.

Sherlock raised one wrapped hand to tap the earphones. “Can’t hear you,” he said in an artificially quiet voice. (Hard to gauge volume without auditory feedback?) “I assume that was a statement about how amazing I am for having deduced the blatantly obvious fact that you’re falling asleep on your feet, though. I need you nearby while I do this and you need to rest, so allowing me to put my feet on your lap is the most expedient solution. Obviously.”

_Oh. Obviously._

Sherlock’s feet were long and thin and bony, just like the rest of him. John let one hand fall over Sherlock’s talus. It probably should have felt too intimate, cupping the top of his naked foot under his palm, but John was pretty squarely in a state of _fuck it_ and if Sherlock actually functioned like a normal human in any reasonable capacity, his feet had to be as sore and miserable as John’s were. At least John had been wearing comfortable shoes, not the ridiculously expensive dress shoes which made up the entirety of Sherlock’s collection. And if this kept Sherlock quiet . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this one is short; sorry about that! This scene just kept getting longer and longer and I finally decided I really ought to split it in two parts. Suffice to say, the next chapter will involve the smut/kink/fun stuff you've all been waiting for :-)


	4. Chapter 4

The sun was filtering weakly through the window when John opened his eyes. He came awake quickly, as he usually did, and kept his body perfectly still as his brain caught up. Daylight, check. Sore back and shoulders, check. Slept while sitting upright, then. Warm weight of something in his lap-

He managed to avoid jumping, but only barely. Sherlock’s bare feet were still resting lightly across his thighs, and one of Sherlock’s heels was grazing his erection. His horribly embarrassing morning erection. Which he had no control over, Sherlock had to know that, Sherlock might notice (of course he noticed) but ought to realize-

The low background noise present in the room suddenly resolved itself in John’s mind as Sherlock talking. Mumbling to himself, really, but very definitely forming words. If he watched Sherlock’s lips he could make them out.

“. . . always been afraid to say anything,” Sherlock muttered. “Doesn’t take a bloody genius to realize I’ve noticed. So either you’re absolutely completely straight, or you’re unobservant. I haven’t had practice hiding this kind of thing before, obviously, so it’s logical I’ve slipped up once or twice. Maybe more than that. The question still stands, then: why haven’t you acknowledged my interest?”

 _Interest . . . not completely straight . . . unobservant . . . hiding what?_ John was suddenly glad Sherlock couldn’t see him, because he was almost certainly gaping blatantly at his muttering flatmate.

“It’s true you’ve never sought out men in the time I’ve known you,” Sherlock continued. _Addressing me but talking to himself._ “Normally I’d conclude that between that and the statistical probability, you’re strictly heterosexual. You never seem offended at the constant implications about us being in a romantic relationship, though, which I’d expect if that were the case. You do complain, and you do correct people - not as often as you used to. Is that relevant? It feels relevant but I’m missing objective data. You complain but only when in the presence of someone who might constitute a future sexual partner or who would likely be present when you meet such a partner. Objection to the implication you’re ‘taken,’ therefore, rather than that you’re inclined toward men. Obvious. Not interested in picking up a male partner, though, it keeps coming back to that-”

Sherlock broke off suddenly, and John realized with a start that his hand was now gripping Sherlock’s ankle a good bit too tight.

“John.” Sherlock swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I assumed you were asleep.”

 _I was._ John expected Sherlock to sit up, tear off the headphones and sleep mask and gloves, and retreat to his room - but the detective just frowned. _Right._ John’s hand contracted around Sherlock’s ankle a bit more, almost but not quite involuntarily.

He hadn’t consciously meant it to be an encouragement for Sherlock to continue, but Sherlock seemed to be taking it that way. There was a long pause, then Sherlock licked his lips _(when did that suddenly become so riveting?)_ and let out a long breath.

“-Keeps coming back to that issue of a label,” Sherlock continued, a hint of wariness in his tone. “Which leaves three possibilities. The first, and most statistically likely, is that you’re completely heterosexual and you’re just unusually tolerant. Most heterosexual men feel at least a little threatened when they’re made aware that another man is showing interest, though, so you’d be anomalous in that regard. Especially given that we live together. Second possibility is that you are somewhere middling on the Kinsey scale but you’re not interested in me specifically. Disappointing, if so, but if that’s the case I’ll endeavor to work around it. Emotions aren’t my strong point, as you well know, but there’s no need for something like this to drive you away from the flat.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s ankle, letting his fingers wrap around to the achilles tendon and caress for the tiniest moment before falling still again. This openness - Sherlock being _honest_ about _feelings_ \- it was heady and confusing and even as John felt like he ought to be standing up any second now and walking away, letting his flatmate keep his secrets, he found he couldn’t. His body wouldn’t obey him.

Sherlock paused in his monologue, holding himself perfectly still for a long moment. “I don’t want you to leave,” he finally admitted in a small voice.

John squeezed again, more firmly. _I’m not going anywhere._ Sherlock wouldn’t hear him if he spoke the words aloud, of course, but touch seemed be just as valid a form of communication and felt more eloquent than words would have anyway.

“The third possibility.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Third is that I’ve hidden my interest better than I expected, and you’ve been making mistaken assumptions about how I feel about you. Or how we could feel about each other.” He licked his lips, looking lost even under the barriers of the headphones and the sleep mask. “This would obviously be the most beneficial, from my point of view, because it leaves open the possibility of something developing. Also the most dangerous, because it relies on successfully navigating the interpersonal demands of a ‘relationship’ and I don’t-”

John slid his palm carefully up to encircle his flatmate’s lower shin, and Sherlock broke off abruptly with a tiny shock of a breath. The sound caused John’s cock to twitch, which made it nudge against the sole of Sherlock’s foot, which turned the hissed intake of air into a stuttering exhale. Sherlock’s entire body was suddenly tense and very, very still.

So John did the only thing he could do - he palmed Sherlock’s other leg as well and tugged his feet apart a bit, so he could get his thumbs around to massage the tender spots just behind Sherlock’s Achilles tendons at the base of his calves. He couldn’t see his eyes, but that was probably just as well - if Sherlock had been able to actually watch him, read everything he was certainly failing to hide on his face, he’d never have been able to do this. To take the first step.

 _Well, can’t claim the first step - second, maybe._ John tried to think back. Could he honestly say he never noticed Sherlock’s interest? Or had he noticed and tried to explain it away? Sherlock is just like that, he probably didn’t know any better, he’s got no concept of personal space -

 _Fuck._ The more amazing thing was that Sherlock had never picked up on John reciprocating. Or maybe John had been sending ambiguous signals too. He twisted his hips a bit, swiveling his body so he could face Sherlock more head-on (or feet to knees, but still). The change meant he could slide both hands all the way up to Sherlock’s thighs, if he wanted to. Did he want to? Sherlock’s robe had fallen open sometime while John had slept, which meant his boxers and the sleeves of his robe were the only things keeping him from being completely bare in front of John.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was almost a whisper.

And just bloody _fuck it_ , because John was _done_ being hesitant. Sherlock was lying practically naked in front of him, feet across his lap, and didn’t seem inclined to run away. And even better, Sherlock actually _liked_ him - enough that he was vacillating like a teenager trying to work up the nerve to ask a girl out on a date. Except John wasn’t a girl, and this wasn’t a date, and they were very definitely not teenagers anymore. (Well, Sherlock still sulked like one sometimes, but in this sense they very definitely weren’t.) 

John scooted closer, rolling up to a V-shaped kneel, which put the soles of Sherlock’s feet even with his hips and left the backs of Sherlock’s calves draped across his respective knees. The position also showed quite a bit of what was under those boxer shorts. Not enough to actually _see_ , not quite, but the slanted morning light from the windows threw shadows which might - or might not - have delineated the lower curve of Sherlock’s bollocks. John suddenly had a very strong urge to just run his hand up the inside of his flatmate’s thigh, all the way up, high enough to find out for sure.

He opted for a middle ground instead, massaging Sherlock’s calves gently and running his fingers upwards to tease the sensitive skin behind the detective’s knees. Sherlock twitched, but otherwise held perfectly still, almost not breathing at all. 

“Keep talking,” John said. It was too soft for Sherlock to understand - had to have been, with those bloody headphones - but Sherlock must have heard something and he was _Sherlock_ which meant he figured out it less than a second later.

“You want me to keep going,” he said, his voice a good half-octave lower than usual. “I will if you will.”

John let one hand trace higher, spearing his fingers through the rough hair on Sherlock’s thigh.

“-and-I-don’t-‘do’-relationships,” Sherlock said very quickly. “Your behavior would seem to indicate the third option has a fair possibility of being correct, therefo- _oh John!_ ”

John sat back with a smirk he knew Sherlock couldn’t see. So those shadows weren’t just shadows after all . . . He ran his hand up Sherlock’s leg and up to his boxer shorts again, brushing just his fingertips under the loose fabric. This time it prompted a gorgeous groan, one which had his own cock hardening embarrassingly quickly (not that it hadn’t had a head start). Sherlock talking was sexy; Sherlock groaning with his head thrown back and his legs spread was on a whole fucking different planet.

“Please.” Sherlock was panting in earnest now, despite the fact that John hadn’t touched more than his legs and two brief brushes over his bollocks. “John - please, everything is down to touch now, the leather cushions against my back and the bit of the draft from the window and _iad sfânt dumnezeul meu, Ich muss deine Finger fühlen,_ just that little bit with your fingers-”

At least part of that sounded like German. Sherlock was babbling, very little of it in English, but enough that John understood he very much approved of John touching him there, anywhere, really, hopefully with the end result of releasing all that sexual tension they’d been carrying around for ages (had it really been that long?) and actually fucking _doing_ something about it. John was more than happy to oblige.

It took no time at all for Sherlock to understand what John wanted - the moment he touched his fingertips to Sherlock’s hips, the detective tilted them upward and let John draw his pants down and off his legs. He was already wonderfully hard, his cock a surprisingly vivid contrast to his pale skin and dark pubic hair. John kept expecting him to tear off the gloves, rip off the blindfold, start demanding things in that imperious way of his, but Sherlock seemed content to let skin-on-skin be their primary method of communication. It felt odd, strangely restrictive, but at the same time it was freeing. No worries about what Sherlock might deduce from his facial expressions, no shame over his own less-than-perfect body, and - best of all - complete and total free rein to ogle Sherlock’s all-but-nude form for as long as he wanted.

Which would have been all night, if Sherlock had let him. And if his own erection hadn’t been so insistent about not being ignored. He could have done something about it - could palm himself and stroke himself off in no time at all and Sherlock wouldn’t be able to see - but John didn’t want to waste his chance. Who knew if Sherlock would ever be up for this again?

No, much better to draw it out. John tugged his own shirt off, careful not to move his hips and give himself away through any change in angle against Sherlock’s calves. Sherlock’s first hint would be John leaning over, flattening his chest against those long thighs and dragging a single long lick up the crease where Sherlock’s thigh met his pelvis-

Sherlock squeaked at the sensation. It was an abrupt sound, quickly cut off, but it was very definitely a squeak and for some reason, it made John giggle. And then once he started, he couldn’t stop. The curls on Sherlock’s thigh dragged against his chest, snagging in his own barely-there chest hair - more than Sherlock’s, for sure, but still nothing to be particularly proud of - and the unexpected friction just made it worse. _Christ - here I am, sprawled on top of my flatmate, who must have no bloody clue what is going on,_ licking _him-_

“John?” Sherlock’s voice called quietly, uncertainty threaded through the question. “What are you-”

 _Fuck it._ John choked back another giggle and lunged forward, managing to get most of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth all in one go. It wasn't something he’d ever done before, never really thought about it one way or the other, but he’d have bet quite a bit of money that Sherlock hadn’t done this before either. Definitely not with the nail-painting toe separator thingies, at least. And damned if he hadn’t been missing out, because Sherlock tasted _nice_. Warm and only slightly sweaty and a little tang of something-

The sheer primal force of Sherlock’s moan forced every last giggle from John’s body and replaced them with something just as powerful, but _much_ more urgent. Sherlock’s breathing was already at the “just run a marathon” stage, harsh and loud in the silent flat, and John couldn’t resist teasing a bit with his tongue just to see what it would do. A shift of his jaw, drawing Sherlock’s cock more fully into his mouth, then a flat lave up the underside with what he hoped was the right amount of pressure . . . Sherlock’s hips jolted forward, hard enough he would have bucked John off his body if John hadn’t already been subconsciously preparing for it by shifting his weight upward and pressing his flatmate down into the cushions.

“None of that, now,” John murmured around the length of the cock in his mouth. Sherlock couldn’t hear him, of course he couldn’t, but he obviously felt the vibrations because the abstract sounds coming out of his mouth increased in intensity. They started to form words, a jumbled mishmash of languages, helped along by John’s occasional darts and flicks with his tongue and teeth and lips. He let his hands get into the game, too - flat pressure against the tops of Sherlock’s thighs, holding him down, then a thumb dipping between those long legs to massage the underside of Sherlock’s bollocks and press gently against his perineum.

That alone nearly broke them both. Sherlock went abruptly silent, his words cutting off mid-stream and being replaced by a harsh panting John was sure would become hyperventilating in a minute if he wasn’t careful. His own cock was painfully hard, pressed against Sherlock’s lower leg, and John knew he wouldn’t last half a dozen strokes if he allowed himself to be distracted by his own body for even a moment. He had to focus on Sherlock first, had to-

“Please,” Sherlock begged, head tossing from side to side against the cushions as best it could despite the bulky headphones. “John, please. I want you to come on me. Want to know how it feels, how warm it is, want that little part of you. Please. _J'ai rêvé de toi comme ça . . ._ ”

“Fuck.” John sat up, dragged his trousers and pants down to his knees, had his cock in his palm in five seconds flat. He shuffled forward between Sherlock’s spread legs, lined himself up, and pumped three, four, five times-

And then he was coming, all over Sherlock’s bollocks and cock and stomach, and it was _absolutely fucking glorious_. Sherlock was groaning, too, nudging forward with his hips against the empty air, chasing something, anything, any contact. Impossibly thick and hard and John would have never in a million years thought Sherlock would allow himself to be seen like this, but here he was. Quivering and gasping for breath and _desperate_.

John fought back his post-orgasmic exhaustion. Right now, he had more on his plate - had Sherlock already slicked up with come, hard and ready. He grabbed Sherlock’s cock with a bit more force than he had intended, but it just made Sherlock’s back arch more, made the polyglottic stream of syllables that much more rapid. Ejaculate wasn’t always the best lube, tended to dry out and get sticky too quickly to be much use most of the time, but John rather suspected this wouldn’t take long enough for it to matter. His come was still warm as he slicked it over Sherlock’s cock from crown to base and slid his hand back and forth. Two normal strokes, then a third with a bit more pressure and a twist at the tip, the way he did it himself when he didn’t want to draw it out, repeating the pattern again and again-

Sherlock’s entire body froze up as he came. John gentled his grip, but kept ahold of Sherlock’s erection until the last spasms had passed and Sherlock fell back against the cushions, suddenly boneless.

“That was . . .” Sherlock mumbled something in a language John had no hope of understanding, but the sentiment really needed no interpretation.

“Yeah,” John agreed, slumping back against his own corner of the sofa. Not that Sherlock could hear him. They lay sprawled there for several minutes before Sherlock finally dragged in a deep breath and struggled up to his elbows.

 _Oh_. John leaned over to help. Their mingled come was cooling stickily between them, but John managed to help Sherlock get the gloves off and from there, Sherlock took care of the headphones and sleep mask. He lay back down with his hands laced behind his head, his bright eyes focused with far too much perception in them for John’s liking.

“I suppose this is where you say this was a mistake?” Sherlock asked. It was suspiciously similar to his normal bored tone - _similar_ but not quite. John gave a silent thanks that he’d been around long enough to know the difference.

“Depends on your definition of ‘mistake,’” John replied evenly. “Do you regret it?”

“No.”

“Want to tell me to move out?”

“No.”

“Then no.” He dared a hand on Sherlock’s ankle again - something that had felt unbearably intimate a few hours ago, and now shouldn’t have been infused with anywhere near the amount of meaning it felt like it suddenly had. “I hadn’t done that before, as you very well know, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it. Or that I wouldn’t do it again if you ever . . .” His courage failed him. “You know,” he finished lamely.

“If I ever felt like having another sexual encounter with you?”

“Something like that,” John mumbled.

Sherlock’s lips twisted upward into a hint of a smirk. “Will you insist on 2.5 children and a dog and a house in the suburbs? Will you demand I give up all my experiments and start doing my fair share of laundry and dishes?”

John blinked. “No, no, God no, no point, and I’m not that stupid. You’re not really a ‘relationships’ kind of person - I get that.” He took a deep breath and forced himself to look - really _look_ \- at his flatmate. “If you just want to be - fuckbuddies or whatever - that’s good. It’s fine with me. And if you want me to stop dating other women and make this a kinda-sorta exclusive thing, that’s fine with me too. I don’t want to change you. Christ, Sherlock, never change.”

Sherlock was silent for a full five seconds following that, his mouth open in surprise. “. . . You really mean that,” he said finally. “You don’t expect me to . . . I don’t know, _improve myself_ or something?”

“Sherlock, I _like_ your sulkiness and your brilliance and the way you berate Anderson and the way you play ungodly terrible violin sonatas at 3 AM in your dressing gown. A tame Sherlock Holmes would be . . . I don’t know, but it wouldn’t be you. You’re the only man I’ve ever wanted to break my successful streak of heterosexuality for - don’t ruin it.”

Another several seconds of silence, and then Sherlock was surging up and crushing his lips to John’s. The kiss was inelegant, messy, and both their chests were now covered in slimy, lukewarm ejaculate, but John couldn’t remember having ever been happier. He let Sherlock just kiss him for a long time, until they were both breathless and at least half hard again.

Sherlock broke away first. “You still smell like alley, John,” he said, his voice low enough for John to feel the rumble of vibration in his bones. “I suggest you take a shower.” He snaked a hand between them and ran one thin finger up the length of John’s cock. “I can join you, if you like. In the interest of . . . thoroughness.”

Yeah, it was going to be a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for this episode, folks :-) If you've noticed that updates seem to be coming slower, that's because I seem to have gotten myself into a situation where I'm trying to update several fics at once. Check out my other works if you want to keep up!


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